With the Pope about to visit the UK, what better time to unburden yourself of anything that's weighing on your mind by posting it on the internet? Pay particular attention to the Seven Deadly Sins of lust, greed, envy, pride, posting puns on the QOTW board and the other ones. Top story gets to kneel before His Holiness's noodly appendage, or something

Baby monitors..
Ah. Well, it was like this you see... I lived in a little terraced house, in an area popular with young families. When the baby Ott3r arrived, amidst a storm of primary coloured plastic and weird things that I still haven't worked out the use of, we bought a baby monitor. It turns out that there are only so many frequencies, and after rushing upstairs to calm the cries of mysteriously sleeping baby on a couple of occasions, we figured out that someone was using OUR frequency. Well, something had to be done. So, in the wee small hours of the morning... I picked up the "transmit" bit of the baby monitor, and started speaking into it....

And so it was that a house a few doors up the street suddenly lit up as the lights were switched on, and (I can only imagine) the concerned parents rushed to baby's room to find the source of a creepy babylike voice that was repeating the words "Satan is my Maaaaaster, Satan is my Maaaaaster.."

Gary the Electrician
Gary, do you remember when we were 19 and were helping with my uncle's loft conversion? Do you remember me and Spud going into the loft to feed down a cable that you'd installed?We couldn't find the hole you'd made so we asked you to stick your finger up through the it so we could find it easier. Do you remember Spud saying, "hold on Gary, we still can't see it"?

Then we asked you to put your finger back up through the hole, and you did, then recoiled slightly because you didn't like the feel of what was on the other side. That's because Spud had dropped his trousers and pants and had squatted over the hole, with his sphincter hovering ever so close to it. You touched his ring that day and you never knew. It's the harderst I've ever had to try to stop myself howling with laughter.

It happens to everyone
Let's get the really embarrassing confession out of the way first of all... I love a good McDonald's. My girlfriend is vegetarian and in the last year I've started jogging to try and shift the last of my man-gut, but I still can't resist a properly filthy Bic Mac. The sort of burger where you're sure barely 5% of it was ever alive, and all the better for it. Don't pretend you don't know exactly what I mean.

Returning from InFest the other day, my appetite finally started waking up after three days of being stomped on by massive drugs. When we pulled into the service station the first sign I saw was for Marks & Spencers. Thanks to the missus I'm quite partial to their stuffed vine leaves and other poncey wares, and was well up for easing my guts back into action in a luxurious manner.

Until I saw the Golden Arches looming in the distance like a glorious beacon of ill health and filthy living. Yes please mate, double cheeseburger, actually make it two, lovely, cheers. First meal in three days, gone in five minutes. Fuck yeah. This is how we do it.

I should really have seen my metabolism's revenge coming, and paced myself. The first rumble informed me that I would not be leaving Ronald's house with my dignity intact, but the lack of squelching clamed my nerves; I was only going to pass gas, not manure. Now, to pucker my flaps and attempt to emit an SBD... no! No, it's too late for such desperate measures! The toxins are on their way out! This would be an excellent time to panic!

Genius is oft born of seemingly impossible situations. I likened my masterstroke to Ultra Magnus' decision to perform an emergency separation of the Autobots' shuttle, allowing Galvatron to destroy the bulk of the vessel and throwing him off the scent. The music in here is pretty loud and surprisingly bangy, thought I. Just wait for the crescendo and... release! In perfect synchronicity with the beats! Yes! Beautifully done! Now, to rise gracefully from my seat and leave the other conoisseurs to enjoy my stenches.

...but why is everyone - EVERYONE - staring at me with such rampant disgust? And why is McDonald's in-house radio playing "Lying Sack of Shit" by Combichrist?

Steve, I'm sorry I ruined your birthday.
Back in the mists of time, when I was merely 20, a friend of mine turned 21. It happens to most 20-year-olds at some point, but Steve was slightly special as he was the oldest in our circle, and therefore the first to reach this milestone.His birthday plans were modest: himself and 15 of his friends would meet for a few beers, we'd go for a Mexican at 8ish (this was winter, so no need to book) and then meet up with another dozen or so after. More beers, then spirits, then nightclub. Flirt badly with people we know, dance badly with people we know, go home alone. Standard Saturday night really, apart from the Mexican restaurant.Ah, yes, the Mexican. Me being me, I was already slightly pished by the time we got to phase 2 of the evening. I ordered margaritas and shots of tequila for Steve and myself before I'd ordered food, and my inner drunken arse was only around the corner.There being 16 of us meant that this little restaurant was slightly unprepared, and there was a good ten minutes between the first and last food being delivered to our table. Plenty of time for me to get bored. I'm sat there drumming idly with my knife and fork, Steve sat next to me ignoring his tacos in favour of turning his napkin into a hat for the girl opposite him, Alix (who was similarly ignoring her fish), when I notice a gloroious, mysterious thing. There's a bee stuck in the tiny fake flowers in the middle of the table. I carefully reach out with my knife, all thoughts of cutlery percussion banished from my head, and wiggle it under him. He stumbles, grips on... and sits there. I have a bee on the end of my knife.The sensible thing to do would be to say "look guys, I've got a bee on my knife" and carry it outside.Instead, I put it on Steve's taco. This'd be funny, right?Right?Wrong. He reached down without looking, picked up his taco, actually took a bite (missing the bee, thankfully) and only noticed it when it was inches from his eyes. He panicked, and threw it across the table, hitting Alix, who was just reaching over for a drink. She recoiled, and the glass in her hand collided with her plate, dragging it into her lap. She screamed: understandable really, since she was covered in Steve's taco and her own grilled fish.Then she noticed the bee. The angry bee.She jumped almost vertically, overturned her segment of table (3 or 4 had been pushed together to accommodate us) and screamed.Then she screamed some more.Her dress was ruined, her and Steve's food was ruined, the night was probably ruined, and I was suddenly very sober.Incredibly, no one had seen me plant the bee in Steve's taco, so to this day, no one knows it was my fault.Steve: The ballsing-up of your 21st birthday was all my fault.So was the bee taco 'n' fish on Al.

Lust"I totally banged a chick and also another chick probly, funny name for her cunt, she was well up for it, amusing made up term for spunking, minor reference to something tangential because everyone knows that near-irrelevant details make a story more convincing."

Greed"Click if you think me telling you to click will get you to click me!"

Gluttony"After eating or drinking something, I did a poo or possibly a sick. It was a colossal behemoth of a euphemism euphemism adjective adjective euphemism humorous noun, which euphemismed its way out of my adjective euphemism humorous noun like a wordswordswordswordswordsWORDS."

Wrath"I hate being on QOTW so much that I'm posting there, but it's different cause it's only to slag off both the pathetic, feeble and unworthy subject - which has been done before already by the way - and the maggots who sully themselves by replying to it."

Do you remember running screaming out of your room many years ago? Sorry, it was me, hiding under your bed, who waited till the lights went out and started scratching at the boards underneath. It was my hand in that sock which grabbed yours as you bravely reached down.

Do you remember your radio you couldn't turn off, or it would turn on in the middle of the night playing dreadful songs? Or weird ghostly voices talking to you and answering your questions? Sorry, that was also me, after taking a lot of time running speaker cable under the carpet from one end of the house to the other, who attached those wires to your stereo system and could control what you listened to.

BUT

You probably don't remember that time you were tripping your nuts off and went all prang about some bloke following you? It was me who came out in the middle of the night and drove like a loon to save you. Let alone making up all kinds of excuses to hide your 'ahem' MASSIVE DRUGS.

You were too young to remember when you fell in the pond and I was just big enough to hold your head above the water long enough to stop you drowning.

Does extreme annoyance count as Wrath?
Alright, I confess. I hate the fact that two members of my family are morbidly obese.

They each weigh far more than 400 lbs, or 180 kg for the metric users. My sister used to be a beautiful girl, the prettiest I knew, and now she looks like a giant waddling egg. People hate her for it, and even I don't like looking at her sometimes. Also, the whole subject is taboo under my roof. My father, my brother and I can never say what is obvious for fear of "hurting their feelings".

Like, I can never say that the reason they're sweating like pigs on a 70 degree day (21 degrees celsius) is because they're carrying a whole extra person's worth of weight on them. We all just live with the a/c turned on to its greatest capacity. I spend my summers wearing long pants and sleeves just to survive in my own house. Sometimes, I wind up camping out in the back yard just so that I can be comfortable enough to sleep. Dad just puts on sweaters and ignores the matter, and my brother spends as much time away from home as possible.

When we go places as a family, we all have to walk at a snail's pace or we're "rudely running ahead" and "ignoring the family". Also, on trips a food break needs to be scheduled every couple of hours or mom and sister complain. Recently, we all took a small vacation and had to all share a hotel room. Mom and dad got one bed, sister and I shared another, and brother got a sleeping bag on the floor. The heat of the day and the gargantuan amount my sister sweats made her stink so bad I could barely breathe.

I took a stand and forced her out of bed to go take a shower. I was demonized and yelled at by the whole family for doing so. I also got yelled at and demonized for suggesting that the reason my sister is having so much trouble finding work is because of her weight. Why else would she, being very qualified, get so many interviews and then not have anybody call her back afterwards? Cue something like an hour of my sister crying her eyes out and the family glaring at me. I haven't suggested to her yet that the reason why she can't wear high heels anymore is because her ankles just aren't physically capable of holding that kind of weight anymore. I'm sure I'll get vilified for that as well.

I'm sure I sound petty saying all this, but it's the little things that get to me. Like, the fact that that when the phone rings neither of them will answer it. They just give me, dad, or my brother a guilty look and just sit there. Whenever I suggest to them that they might want to come for a walk with me, they come up with some excuse why they can't walk the 1/4 mile (less than 1/2 km) circuit I take the dog out on.

The thing is, it's not just me being petty anymore. It's starting to have huge impacts on their health.

My mother fell down in the yard, and could not stand up afterwards. She laid out on the ground for 30 minutes before dad noticed and rescued her. She's only middle aged. That shouldn't happen yet!

My sister's joints creak and crack like an old woman's, causing her sometimes hideous pain. I've seen her cry about the pain in her back just from walking around the house.

The tremendous amount of work my sister's heart has to do to pump blood through all her massive bulk makes her get very tired (like falling asleep wherever she's sitting) at seemingly random times. This narcolepsy has happened behind the wheel of the car before. Fortunately she didn't get hurt, but the car got really banged up. She also has to literally wedge herself into the driver's seat of the commuter car we share. The extremely tight fit makes it impossible for her to check her blind spots and move the wheel effectively. It catches on her thighs. Every time she drives me somewhere, I fear for my life.

My sister has, as recent testing has proven, also given herself type 2 diabetes. This puts her at high risk for kidney failure, strokes, and heart attacks. She's only 24.

One night, I had stayed up late to work on a project and was just heading to bed when I saw my sister in the kitchen. She was sitting at the table, sleepily eating cheese and crackers. It was obvious she had been asleep and had woken up for a midnight snack. She compulsively ate through an entire block of cheese by herself.

As I watched her, I wanted to scream, cry, and vomit all at once.

You must understand, my sister is the most important person in my life. I love her more than anything.

And I just have to sit on my hands while she slowly kills herself.

I don't know how much more I can take, or how much time she has.
(Audienda, Thu 26 Aug 2010, 17:26,
23 replies)

epic tale of a Czech boy
Growing up I lived in a tough neighbour hood. Like really fucking tough. I didn’t know anyone who didn’t carry a knife. Or anyone that wasn’t in a gang. People think gangs are a lifestyle choice - they are not. You just get swept up and carried along. Sometimes fantasy and real life blurred at the edges. But this was the cold reality of my existence and there was no escape from it. I looked up at the same sky as everyone else but we were shit poor. I didn't ask anything of anyone. I learned quickly to accept the ebb and flow of things. Some of the times we had were great others were the lowest points of my young life. I learned to just go with it, whatever happened – to be honest I didn’t give a fuck about anyone or anything.

Until that is, the day I had to break it to my mother I had committed murder. She couldn’t accept it, simply refused to believe it. The worst part was when she demanded to know how I had killed the poor bloke. Having to tell my own mother I had shot another young man at point blank range is still to this day indescribable. He died instantly of massive head wounds. Pulling the trigger was simple, but I hadn’t any idea of the consequences. She was distraught. She told me I had thrown my entire life away. I have never seen anyone cry with such gut-wrenching pain. I didn’t want this for her. I didn't mean to make this happen. I did to do the only thing I could. I ran. The following day i was gone but my mother had to try and pretend she knew nothing of this terrible thing and continue life as normal.

But all too soon the game was up. By the time i was caught i was in a terrible state, I was petrified and every part of my body ached. I waved goodbye to my life, my mother, I didn't want it all to be over but frankly by this time I wished I’d never even been fucking born.

In court I looked at the judge, a little thin wisp of a man. He was a joke, a fucking buffoon. We danced around the whole stupid legal process. Being in remand was terrifying. The first night in prison there was a huge storm, thunder scares me but the banging of doors and the clatter of hundreds of other men terrified me. All at once my place in the gang – the security of it meant nothing. I was just another dirt poor fucker trapped in a hole. My family was skint, there would be no fancy lawyers to come save me from the inevitability of the situation. But my attitude was still – who gives a fuck?

Clearly there was no way out of this one, but then, on a technicality I got off. Reluctantly they let me go, well got off for now that is - if there is a Hell then there is surely a place set aside for me.

You can think what you like of me. Some people call me scum others just turned their backs on me. But when it comes down to it I have realised in this life that if you look closely enough, nothing really matters, anyone can see. Nothing really matters to me.
(spimf™ is whoever you want him to be, Sun 29 Aug 2010, 23:41,
24 replies)

Chilly
Late one July night when I was about 16, I left my mate's house who lived in a small satellite village of Hull and set off on my bike, but rather then go straight home, I took a detour and went down a dark lane and stopped near a gap in a hedge. I wheeled my bike behind the hedge and stripped off. For no reason whatsoever, I wanted to know what it felt like to be naked out of doors. But I wasn't going to join a nudist camp as I didn't want people seeing me naked, so I wanted to do it out of sight of prying eyes.

It's a weird feeling, even relaxing with a light breeze giving my crutch, genitals and buttocks an airing, in the dark with the glowing street-lights of Hull a few miles away.

I strode about a bit enjoying the exhilarating freedom with a lazy semi flopping about as it did feel quite rude, but not that rude. But then I froze. I heard an engine and saw a couple of headlights up the lane. Fuckity Fuckity fuck!

My clothes were on my bike which was lying on the ground hidden by the hedge. They were a good 20 yards away and I realised that the car would pass by before I could get to the bike, get dressed and pretend I'd stopped for a slash. I ducked down and waiting for the car to pass. It didn't pass. It slowed down and stopped at the other side of the hedge about 5 yards further up from me. With the engine still running, I heard a car door open and someone getting out.

fuckshitfuckshitfuckshitfuckshit!. If they spot me or my bike through the hedge, they're going to investigate. Surely they could hear my heart pounding, to me it sounded like someone trying to break into a kettle-drum with a mallet. I didn't dare move. To make matters worse, long grass was brushing against my buttocks and something was fluttering about near my right ear - a moth of sorts I think. I tried to waft it away but in doing so, I lost balance and tipped backwards. I managed to stop myself by putting my hands behind me. Did he hear me? I kept as still as possible, in a ridiculous crab-like posture, holding my rear up off the long grass for fear of ticks latching on and feeding on my blood. I must've looked like someone doing a performance art show, entitled "sausage on crooked coffee-table in starlight"

I struggled to wring out my brain for any plausible excuse. I had three stories:-

The truthI was drunkI was a werewolf who had just changed back to a human again.

Notwithstanding the lack of alcohol on my breath and that there was only at best only a half-moon, the truth, no matter how cripplingly embarrassing, would have to be my excuse.

I heard a zip and a splashing sound. It was a bloke stopping for a piss. He was taking forever. At least three hours. Well it seemed like that, it was more like 20 seconds. Then I heard a female voice.

"Hurry up Steve for fuck's sake. My dad'll kill me if I'm not in for 12""I can't piss any faster, christ stop fretting will yer. Besides my tubes are still full of spunk" he retorted.She giggled, "I didn't hear you complain at the time.""I didn't see you offer to suck the remnants out so I could piss faster""Fuck off." she requested.

He finished, zipped up and wandered away. He got back in his car and drove off.'Thank fuck that they came from that end of the lane' I thought. Had they have been going the other way, the headlights would have more than likely picked out my bike lying on the ground behind the hedge.

As soon as they were gone, I hot-footed it to my bike, got dressed faster than I ever had before and biked home rather swiftly.
(sandettie light vessel automaticNew Twitter - @bollocksreally, Wed 1 Sep 2010, 15:32,
8 replies)

20 years ago at Sixth Form
In the music suite there were a couple of other small rooms called practice rooms. Me and anywhere upto a dozen others used to treat one of them like our own personal common room and it would contain at least one or two of us at any given moment with almost everybody in there at lunchtime. One morning, I had a free period but probably due to a combination of lessons and absences, I was only one in there.

So I had a wank and then spunked into the piano.

To add to the fun, I opened the lid again to see my juices running down the bass strings, so I played a few chords and watched it buzz about the strings in an amusing way
(sandettie light vessel automaticNew Twitter - @bollocksreally, Thu 26 Aug 2010, 15:26,
4 replies)

when I was a slightly smaller, slightly less spotty geek...
...I used to get out of PE (can't stand footingball or whatever it's called, I haven't got a competitive bone in my body, or in my collection under the bed) sit in the changing rooms and do my homework so I didn't have to do it at home...

Anyhoo, when I'd finished I looked for the bag of someone who'd done me wrong that week (or a random bag if I had managed to stay off everyone's radar), find their English homework, and add loads of random punctuation. I especially favoured exclamation marks.

This is not the 1st time I've admitted this but it's by far the most public arena in which I have done so.

In which grandmasterfluffles gets revenge in true b3ta style
As a friend of mine said recently, "There's nothing quite as satisfying as doing an ENORMOUS smelly poo somewhere where you're very unlikely ever to return, and driving away at full speed." I think I can go one better. There's nothing quite as satisfying as doing an ENORMOUS smelly poo that makes someone throw up.

A couple of years ago I was in Tegucigalpa. Tegucigapla is the capital of Honduras, and boy is it a shithole. I'd been travelling for a few weeks with a fairly large group of people, most of whom I liked. With one massive exception. Megan. Megan was a nasty, bitchy girl who made snide comments about me in front of everybody, persuaded people to go out without me, etc etc. I don't know why she didn't like me, but she was a Grade A bitch. I emailed everybody back home asking what evil things I should do to her and came up with the following list of suggestions:

* Put hair removal cream in her shampoo* Spike her drinks with laxatives* Shave her head while she's asleep* Put her hand in warm water while she's asleep* Piss in her suitcase* Teach her that "Me gusta joder las cabras" means, "Hello, how are you?"

However, what actually happened was so much more satisfying than any of those things. We were at the bus terminal waiting for our bus to Nicaragua when the dodgy burrito that I'd had the night before caught up with me. After an agonising several-minute wait for the one toilet in the building I dived in there, dropped my pants and unleashed a foul torrent of effluent. After I'd cleaned myself up and straightened myself out, I turned round to flush the vile river of monster shit down the toilet. It wouldn't flush. I was in there for several minutes, cursing this toilet, opening it up and trying to fix it, all to no avail. It was not going to flush. There was nothing for it. I was going to have to leave it and pretend that it wasn't mine.

I left the cubicle, looking as innocent and disgusted as I possibly could. Mercifully the next person in the queue wasn't anyone I knew, but behind her was Megan. "It's disgusting in there," I helpfully warned her. A few minutes later, thanks to an open window facing the bus terminal, I was treated to the glorious sound of the following:

A few minutes later, Megan emerged, white and shaking. I sat on the bus sniggering for the next several hours. Megan, if you're reading, IT WAS ME! HAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA!!!
(grandmasterflufflesCome to my Armageddon party on, Fri 27 Aug 2010, 7:59,
2 replies)

Gran
This is a cathartic effort (so not many funnies on this one folks)

I was with you when you died today in the hospital, you had been sick for a few years and although i didnt see you much in the last few years i remembered you often.

My confession is that the last few rare times i did see you it broke my heart to see you old and sick in constant need of my mum cleaning you, it hurt to not see that superwoman again but someone who was slowly eroded by time crying in the night in pain and confusion, i didnt know what to do.

I remember when i was mid teens in and out of prison, you came to the court when no-one else would and begged the judge to let me live with you instead of sending me down again, i stayed there in Birmingham for a year and sorted my head out, playing scrabble with you and listening to stories of you growing up during the war and raising children in abject poverty and performing fire warden duty on top of buildings while bombs fell around you, without a complaint or hint of self sorrow, it made me grow up a lot.

I remember that allotment you had where you taught a council house kid to grow veg and what a real home grown tomato tasted like.

I remember you telling me that in life it doesnt matter how many times people bring you down as long as you get back up.

I remember you giving me my childhood back,when i was being bad you took the shit i gave you and slung it back twice as fast.

I remember you teaching me how to play darts and pool.

I dont often cry Gran but seeing you there lifeless was one of the most surreal times of my life.

Counter-graffiti
While on a holiday travelling around Ireland with some friends, in one of the pubs we stopped at for lunch I went to the lavatory only to notice that someone had written "PIRA" on the back of the door.

Now, I'm usually a thoroughly law-abiding chap who wouldn't vandalise anything, but given this mark of support for a terrorist organisation, just this once I couldn't resist.

Forgive me mother
My mum was and still is an avid gardener. During my teenagers years I would regularly volunteer to light the heater in her greenhouse. (for the unitiated this is basically an adjustable wick in a pan of paraffin). I did however have an ulterior motive... it meant I could have a cheeky cigarette whilst I did it.

All was going reasonably well as I tugged away on an Embassy No 1 that I'd "borrowed" from my dad. In hindsight I probably should have been paying a little more attention. Leaning down to stub out the cigarette I noticed the unusual orange hue at the far end of the greenhouse. Whilst puffing away and contemplating how dirty Jessica Browne must be in bed I hadn't realised that I had put a little too much paraffin in the heater. By now the entire heater (not just the wick) and the staging (its a posh word for wooden shelves in a greenhouse apparently) were now totally engulfed in flames.

It my panic, I grabbed the large and handily placed jug of water sat on the floor. Deciding the fire was getting out of hand I threw the contents at the inferno that used to be her tomatoes...

and it would have worked perfectly....

had it been water in the jug and not 2 litres of Paraffin.

Surprised doesn't do it justice... I stood there open mouthed, gawping as the cucumbers disappeared into the blaze. Thinking quickly I ran down the garden and grabbed the hose. Eventually I managed to put out Hades greenhouse. Before returning indoors and pretending nothing had happened. So some 15 years later...

This one just happened yesterday
I went to Glasto with a bunch of friends this year, including my long-term best mate Matt. Our sense of humour tends towards the peurile and practical jokes are pretty commonplace, so while inebriated I thought it would be hilarious to write "TXT MATT 4 BUM FUN 07XXX XXXXXX" on the inside of the door of one of the portaloos close to our tents. I gave him a bit of a ribbing about it, but that was that - the festival ended and we all went home.

Yesterday he received a text reading "Bum fun?" and annoyed, he called them back to discover that it was from someone at Leeds festival - turns out the portaloos go from festival to festival as well, and his phone number was getting a whole new lease of life. His last text message to me read "I am so going to kill you"; my reply: "Ironically enough I am laughing my arse off".

Saturday update: Oh lord it gets better

yesterday I received: "Motherfucker just got this 'Matt I want bum fun plz i have poppers to loosen my sphincter x' bastard!"

i must admit to smoking marijuana
i smoked it in the sleeti smoked it in the snowi even smoked it in the rain

but i did not in hail.......
(Smash Monkeyis going off the rails on a crazy train, Mon 30 Aug 2010, 23:55,
9 replies)

Speaking of cats and bins...
So there I was, watching TV at home one Sunday and the phone rings.

"Hello Mr Punch," my sister says cheerily, "that's us just landed at Gatwick, are you still OK to pick us up from Aberdeen Airport later on?"

"Er, yes, of course."

Oh fuck. I'd forgotten I said I'd do that. I'd forgotten that she'd gone off on two weeks holiday. And I'd also forgotten...

"How are the cats?"

...that I said I'd look after her three cats.

"Oh, they're, um, fine," I gulped before hanging up and banging my head on the wall a few times.

A rapid drive to her house. Please let them still be alive, please let them still be alive, I repeat like a mantra through the journey.

Thank god, three live cats greet me as I push the back door open. The kitchen and hall show that the cats have scoured the bin / rubbish bags (which I was supposed to put out) for every last morsel of sustenance.

Next, feed and water the cats (they'd drunk two toilets almost dry) and a frantic 2-hour tidy-up of the litter-strewn kitchen and hall.

Give the cats more food. A final check of the house and the cats, and I set off to pick her and her brood up from the airport.

To my eternal credit, I brazened it out and neither she nor the kids were any the wiser. She even commented on how well the cats looked, and how very very very very pleased they were to see the family back. And I got a bottle of something Spanish for my endeavours.

I've done some really terrible things in my time, but for some reason this one still haunts me.
(MisterPunchdid it that way on, Thu 26 Aug 2010, 19:15,
4 replies)

When I was older
I used to love messing around in time machines
(TheManWithThePlancussed your mum on, Fri 27 Aug 2010, 13:47,
3 replies)

On a motorcycle trip to the Arctic Circle...
Once you get to the only road that crosses the line, there's a small cairn field and a six-armed statue holding aloft a globe which marks the Arctic Circle. A truly bizarre place where, for part of the year, the sun never sets and at the other end of the cycle, never rises. The trees and vegetation just... stop. The ice holds the land in the north in its death grip. Nothing lives. It's a truly wonderful landscape - one that'll stay with me for the rest of my life.

Anywho, sub sixth-form levels of lazy, faux-dramatic sentence construction aside, there's also a monument to the Norwegians killed in the Nazi invasion and occupation during World War II.

As I walked past this, on the way back from the somewhat secluded Arctic Circle marker, three German riders, who'd travelled around 2500 miles on Harley Davidsons to the spot asked me to take a photograph of them in front of the marker. The wrong marker.

And so I did. I took a photo of three German gentlemen grinning and giving thumbs up while leaning on a statue commemorating the wartime dead and didn't say a word.

knoblong
dear adie,despite what you thought at the time, i never nicknamed you knoblong because you have a long knob.you haven't.i called you it because it looked like you'd flopped your cock onto the coffee table and twatted it a few times with a tenderising mallet.you have an oblong knob.
(Smash Monkeyis going off the rails on a crazy train, Fri 27 Aug 2010, 20:48,
3 replies)

Vergib mir, Vater, denn ich habe gesündigt.
When I was a wee lad I was given a natty little electronic gizmo called Merlin. A fine toy it was, and it kept me occupied for hours on end. One of the entertainments it offered was charmingly called Music Machine. This assigned ten musical notes to the buttons on the keypad, with the 0 being a pause, and the carefree owner could "record" a top-ten hit and play it back in all its wonderful pre-Nokia monophonic glory.

The accompanying instruction manual included a selection of musical pieces, complete with their numeric instructions, one of which was Ode to Joy. I'd not been aware of that particular piece of classical bombast until then, but I fell head over heels in love with it. I played that beepy tune over and over and over until everyone around me was heartily sick of it. I'm surprised none of them threatened to buy me an LP (showing my age) of the recording just to stop me murdering Beethoven's memory.

Anyway, the consequence of my obsession with a monophonic beepy rendition of Ode to Joy is that even now, thirty years later, I can't, for the life of me, stop thinking of that infernal numerical sequence whenever I hear that part of the 4th Movement.

Went to an Ann Summers party, years ago, and after a few bottles of wine the confessing started.
'Everything here is confidential, girls!' said the party organiser.

I listened wide-eyed as the other women told hilarious stories of infidelities and dodgy paternities. Great fun, but sounded dangerous to me. What if anyone blabbed?

Of course they did. The women went home drunk and told their husbands and partners the stories. The men mostly knew each other, so in a few days it all 'got back'.

There was an outbreak of black eyes and broken arms among local couples followed by a few break-ups and divorces. Men called out and punched other men.

Things quietened down eventually. I still live in the area and go to the odd party. Sticking to Tupperware though, it's safer!
(Juan Quaris clinging to her front teeth on, Sat 28 Aug 2010, 8:16,
4 replies)

To the waiter
in the Oriel brasserie, Sloane Square. Circa 1997.

It wasn't me that knocked the bottle of St Emillion over on the table, making you have to move everything off the table, change the linen, put everything back and mop the floor.

It was the girl I was having lunch with. She was one of our brokers, we were meeting to discuss business. I was fingering her under the table, and she knocked the bottle over when she came.

Chickenlady's Seven Deadly Sins #1 LUST
This is also going to cover #4 SLOTH as it's an old, old pearoast but I'm guessing that as it dates back a couple of years or more there will be plenty of people who haven't seen it....

Sometime A few years ago I went on a date with a very nice chap. It was our first date...although we had known one another for a short while and had become good friends. We went for a meal in a country pub...where I had three glasses of wine...those of you who know me will know that three glasses are my limit.

So, just before we're leaving I get up to go to the loo. He asks why I agreed to go on a date with him...as I stand up and walk away (swaying slightly in my high heels) I whisper in his ear, "Because you're hot"Of course I think this is just the sexiest thing possible I can say even if it is slightly slurred...and off I stagger to the loo.

We get in his car and drive down the road...we come to a t-junction and he turns to me and says..."Your place or mine?" Yes, sometimes clichés do work! I started to laugh, mainly because I didn't think anyone ever really said this. However, being the lady I am I declined to go back to his place - first date and all that. It was better if he just dropped me home. Keep to the third date rule!

See - I'm not desperate...

Then the wine kicked in, big time.

Inhibitions swept away...him looking at me with those big brown eyes and cheeky grin. My skirt seemed to be sliding higher and higher. Before I know it I'm running my tongue over my fingertip, sucking it and then trailing it down my collarbone...my breathing ragged.Calm down at the back there"No, turn right here..then left...and pull into the woods"

He drives in...stops the car in the corner of the car park and in the blink of an eye we're on each other like ravenous woodland creatures - badgers maybe, or perhaps foxes, not hedgehogs though.

Shirt buttons popping, hair pulling, hands roughly exploring, delicate lacy underwear quickly discarded and one of the most hot first dates I'd ever had. DISCLAIMER : up until then - of course there has been a better once since then. Ahem.

So we're going at it like a train, but in a car of course. All the grunts and oohs and aahs and sweat and goodness me, is it hot in here?Until.... while sitting astride him I managed to slam my bare arse into the car horn.

We start giggling....

Then we notice the other cars in the woodland car park.The other cars are flashing their headlights at us.We are still for a few moments...the lights go off and we decide to continue...so desperate are we both to finish.

The point of no return arrives...Headlights appear again on full beam lighting us both up in all our frenzied glory.

Then darkness and the sound of cars being driven away.

Safe.

He gets out of the car to 'adjust' his clothing ....the interior light comes on and is matched by another one in a car only a few feet away...."Want some help mate?"

And at that moment my entire life flashed before me....

I knew the voice....and it wasn't that of my date.

I had spoken to him once or twice on the phone and plenty of times in the pub...where he's the barman.

It was me
As a teenager, I was riding the bus home and found that I needed a little fart. As it was near my stop I let out two tiny little farts, they felt tiny, but big things come in little packages.

The results was unbelivable! Leaving, the farts felt the same size as jelly beans (can any one else feel a size and shape somtimes?) leaving, the interior of the bus was far larger, yet the smell was wide spread and intense. People. Began to cry out in distress.

The bus driver was shouting that the smell was so bad he couldn't see. This was a double decker bus, completely overpowered by a fart.

Whilst getting off the bus, I heard a girl shout "That fucking stinks! Close the windows, it's gotta be the farm!" I laughed all the way home.
(Mong goose, Tue 31 Aug 2010, 13:55,
1 reply)